by Paul S. Kemp
“Now, Egil!” Nix shouted.
The priest leaped aside as the statue stabbed at him with the spear. He sidestepped a stomp as he ran past the other. The moment Egil was through the doors, he turned to close them, but the statues were already in pursuit. Two steps brought them to the doorframe. Egil cursed, but before he could do anything more, before the statues could attack him again, Nix dove at the priest and tackled him.
“Be still, be still, be still,” Nix said, covering both of them with the shroud. “Don’t fakkin’ move!”
“What the fak are you doing?” Egil hissed, starting to rise.
“They don’t think, Egil,” Nix whispered. “They’re like animals but dumber. They don’t sense us now. Quiet. Quiet.”
His words reached the priest, for Egil stopped struggling. They lay on the ground under the shroud entirely still. The statues moved through the doors and looked about. Nix was facing the ground and could not see them, but he could hear them, and he felt Egil hold his breath, presumably as the statues looked at the place where they lay.
One of them stepped forward, its foot sinking into the turf beside Nix’s face. If it took another step forward with its other foot, it would likely step on them. Nix tensed; Egil, too.
The statue’s leg ground and creaked and Nix prepared to bound up, but instead of stepping forward the statue turned back.
He exhaled silently, listening to the sound of the statues taking their ordinary positions just outside the door.
“Fak,” Egil whispered.
“A moment longer,” Nix said.
“You’re not going to try to kiss me, are you?” Egil said.
“Your breath is too foul,” Nix answered. “Listen now. The statues will have their backs to us. I’m going to get up, taking the shroud with me against the possibility of them turning around. I’ll shut the doors under its cover. You’re going to roll away out of their field of view as soon as I rise, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Holding the shroud aloft as he rose, a fabric wall between him and the statues, Nix stood and hustled to the doors. Behind him, Egil scurried off to the side.
The statues stood their posts just as he had expected. He put a hand to the gate and swung the first one closed. It swung silently, easily, and clicked into place. When it did, the statues creaked, starting to turn around. Still shielded behind the shroud, Nix darted to the other door and swung it closed, too. He breathed easier once it clicked into place. They’d gotten past the guardian statues without alerting the entire Conclave.
He donned a smug smile and turned to face Egil, but the smile faded and the words stuck in his throat when he found himself face-to-face with Kazmarek the Grandmaster. Tattooed glyphs decorated the wizard’s clean-shaven cheeks and the outer corners of his gray eyes. He wore embroidered velvet robes thrown over his nightclothes. Short, steel gray hair framed his stern, wrinkled face. His eyes, the dark circles under them like stains, widened in surprise but briefly; he overcame his shock before Nix.
“Nix Fall,” he said, half question, half statement, and held aloft his right hand, the back of it facing Nix. Nix started to reach for his blade but the blue gem set in the silver ring on the wizard’s index finger sparkled, drew Nix’s eye, held it, and froze him.
“I knew you’d return someday,” Kazmarek said, the sound of his voice summoning memories of Nix’s time at the Conclave. “But I didn’t think like this.”
—
Jyme sat on the floor of the Tunnel with his back to the bar, his blade drawn and lying on the floor beside him. Gadd sat on the floor near him, the big Easterner’s breathing as regular as the hourly chime of Ool’s clock.
Jyme had slept on the road often but couldn’t get comfortable on the floor so he shifted and sighed, unable to sleep. He was still irritable at having been left behind, though he admitted to himself that Egil had pegged him correctly. Jyme had spent months in Sessket, trying to forget the moment in the desert when he’d had a chance to show bravery but hadn’t. He’d even met a woman in Afirion, an ebon-skinned beauty named Ziza, who’d had a voice and manner so soft and delicate that she had reminded Jyme of a gentle rain.
Thinking of her, her laugh, reopened the wound of her death. It’d been for nothing. There’d been no meaning to it, no heroic buildup and sacrifice, just ridiculous chance.
She’d been trampled with five others when a crocodile had attacked one of a crowd of hundreds of religious bathers celebrating a rite of harvest in the water’s shallows. And that was it. She’d died for nothing in an absurd accident.
Her death had emptied him out, of emotion, of meaning, of caring. It had taken him a long time to decide that doing anything was worthwhile. But when he did, he’d decided that his days of doing nothing notable were done. He’d realized that he wanted to make a mark on the world and he’d do it in honor of Ziza. And he’d realized, too, that he had amends to make, to Egil and Nix, and to himself.
So he’d returned to Dur Follin, coming around the long way to avoid the Demon Wastes, determined to make up for his cowardice in the desert. But instead he found himself sitting watch in a whorehouse that Kerfallen would ignore now that Egil and Nix were gone. Worse, he couldn’t sleep. Even worse still, he needed to piss.
He heaved himself up, groaning at the effort, and looked around in the dark for a pisspot. Though they’d left a night wick burning atop the bar, the moons had set long before, the fire in the hearth had burned down to nothing, and he could see little in the dark.
He resolved that he’d relieve himself and then find somewhere more comfortable than the floor to sleep. Kerfallen was not coming, nor were his creatures.
Halfway through his piss a creak on the porch outside stilled him. He stopped his flow, wincing at the effort, and listened. A sniffing or chuffing sound carried under the double doors in front, another creak, prolonged, as of something heavy trying to quietly shift its weight. He laced up his breeches half-assed and moved quietly back to the bar. He reached down to awaken Gadd, but the big Easterner spoke before Jyme touched him, his voice quiet.
“I am awake.”
“Did you hear that?” Jyme said. “By the door? What is that? A dog?”
Gadd stood, unrolling his towering frame, both hands on the hilt of his tulwar, eyes on the rectangles of the doors. “That is not a dog.”
Jyme’s heart picked up speed. He kneeled and grabbed up his sword, his breeches, poorly laced, trying to slip down his hips. He’d get his chance at redemption, after all.
“Wizard shite, then,” he whispered. “Nothing gets up the stairs, yeah?”
Tesha and the working women and men of the Tunnel were sleeping in their rooms upstairs. Jyme had no intention of allowing harm to come to them.
“Yes,” Gadd answered.
They moved furtively but quickly across the common room, navigating through the tables and chairs, toward the doors. Jyme, trying to better tie off his breeches as he went, peeked out a window on the way, but the angle was bad and he could make out nothing but a very large form hunched near the doors.
“Definitely not a dog,” he whispered. “It’s big.”
Gadd nodded, his eyes wide and white in the dark oval of his face.
The chuffing outside grew louder, more urgent, as if whatever it was had caught a scent. Jyme pictured the thing bent all the way down, its nose down by the bottom of the doors.
“You think it can smell us?” he whispered to Gadd. He had his breeches tight enough now.
“It smells something,” Gadd said, his eyes on the doorway.
Jyme gestured Gadd to one side of the doorway while he moved to the other.
“I’ll open it,” Jyme whispered. “Stand ready.”
Gadd nodded and readied his blade.
As Jyme reached for the lock, something huge slammed into the door, cracking wood and causing the floor to vibrate. Tankards fell from their pegs behind Gadd’s bar.
Jyme cursed, bounded back away from the doors, and readied hi
mself. Gadd did the same, snarling to show his filed teeth. Another powerful impact struck one of the doors and it gave way entirely, the hinges pulling free of the jambs with a squeal, splintered wood showering into the room. A huge form filled the opening.
Though hunched, the creature still stood a few hand spans taller than even Gadd, and appeared wider than a barrel. An overlarge, filthy, wet cloak covered its lumpy form, and rags and straps wrapped the trunks of its legs. Its breath came in loud, wet heaves and it stank like decay and fish. Jyme winced at the reek. A hood and more wraps shielded most of its face from view. Jyme could see only the rapid blink of eyes, the pair of them oddly close together and fixing on no point for more than a moment.
Gadd growled and rushed it from one side, tulwar raised high in a two-handed grip, while Jyme rushed it from the other.
The creature turned and lurched at Gadd, snarling as the Easterner’s blade chopped it in its shoulder beside its neck. The blow should have felled it, but seemed to have no effect. Blood flowed, but not enough. The creature grabbed Gadd by the arm and flung him away. Gadd crashed into a table, into the chair beyond, and fell to the floor groaning. Jyme lunged forward and stabbed the hulking thing through its back and out its stomach. Again blood sprayed but the creature did not buckle. Instead it growled and whirled to face him, wrenching Jyme’s blade from his hand.
Jyme stood before it, looking up dumbfounded into its rage-filled eyes. It slammed a palm into Jyme’s chest, driving the wind from him, maybe cracking his sternum, and propelling him across the room. Careening backward, he tripped on a chair, went heels over head, and slammed the back of his skull against the floor. Things went black for a moment, then sparks, but he stayed conscious. He was blinking, staring up at the beamed ceiling, trying to breathe.
A scream sounded from the upstairs landing—one of Tesha’s girls must have come out of her room at the sounds of the combat. Jyme heard the tread of footsteps from above. He lifted his head to see the creature looking up the stairs, its chest heaving under the robes. It looked back at Jyme and spoke, but its voice was like many voices, raspy and gravelly and high-pitched and deep all at once. It held out a hand, huge and misshapen, the skin filthy and creased but looking like melted candlewax.
“ThegreatspellthespellgiveittomeImusthavehaveit.”
Jyme clambered to his feet, wincing at the pain in his chest, feeling dizzy for a moment, trying to catch his breath, and otherwise having no idea what the creature was babbling about. He drew a dagger from his belt, a paltry weapon against so large a creature.
A roar came from behind the monster as Gadd rose up and leaped over a table, swinging the thick blade of his tulwar at the creature’s throat. It raised an arm to defend itself and Gadd’s blade sank deep into flesh and bone. Gadd snarled into its face and the creature responded only by slamming the hammer of its fist against the side of Gadd’s head, a blow that sent Gadd reeling to the floor. His tulwar skittered away.
More screams from up the stairs, Tesha calling out, herding the girls away. They’d have to jump out one of the second-floor balconies if the creature headed upstairs. Jyme would buy them as much time as he could.
He dropped the dagger, grabbed a chair, and slammed it over the creature’s head and shoulders. The chair broke and splintered, and Jyme might as well have struck a tree, for all the good it did. He thought quickly enough to grab his blade and jerk it clean of the creature’s body as it turned to face him.
“What the fak are you?” he said. If it hadn’t been for the blood, he would have assumed the hulking thing to be one of Kerfallen’s constructs.
“GivemethespellIsmellithere!”
“I don’t know what the Hells you’re talking about,” Jyme said, but then he did.
The plates Egil and Nix had, the plates Kerfallen wanted, the writing on them. The creature must want them, too.
“ThespellthespelltheGreatSpell.”
Jyme backed up a step, blade ready. Gadd was unmoving on the floor. Jyme maneuvered himself around so that he stood between the creature and the stairs.
“Go out the balcony if you have to,” he called over his shoulder, but had no idea if anyone heard him.
The creature clenched its fists and roared, its body rippling with its rage, and Jyme tensed, ready to die fighting. More screams sounded from the landing, followed by the twang and whistle of a crossbow quarrel. The creature sprouted a bolt from its side, the missile sinking deep into its flesh. It snarled and looked up the stairs. Jyme glanced back, too.
Tesha stood at the top along with several of the working girls. She was already reloading the crossbow she held. Jyme took the opportunity. He bounded forward, desperation lending him speed, and stabbed the creature through the face. His blade sank deep and it felt to Jyme like he’d stabbed a melon. The creature took a step back, but only that. It tore the blade loose, again jerking it from Jyme’s grasp. Blood poured from the gash in its face, but only for a moment before the wound seemed to close.
Jyme stared wide-eyed, mouth hanging open, knowing he was going to die.
The creature, stinking and bloody and huge, raised a fist high to crack Jyme’s skull. As it did the crossbow sang again and another bolt slammed into it, this time in its chest. It didn’t seem to notice.
“Get out of here!” one of the girls screamed from the top of the stairs. “Leave us alone!”
“You aren’t possible,” Jyme said softly.
The creature tensed to strike and…stopped.
It raised its nose and sniffed, inhaled deeply. A low growl sounded from somewhere deep in its chest. It glared at Jyme through bloodshot eyes, lowered its fist, turned, and lumbered out of the Tunnel.
A spike of pain flashed in the back of Jyme’s head. A wave of dizziness made the room spin. He sagged to the floor and the world went dark.
—
Nix tried to pull his eyes from the enchanted ring, from its dark blue depths, its swirling, infinite cerulean currents, but it transfixed him. He fell deeper into the blue, was swimming in it. Part of him knew what was happening but could not stop it because stopping it would mean removing his gaze from the gem and it was too fascinating, its pull too strong.
Kazmarek looked past him at the closed gates. “You bypassed the iron guards? How did you—”
Egil rose up behind Kazmarek and punched the wizard in the side of the head. The old man fell without a sound, collapsing at Nix’s feet. The ring lost its glow and its hold and Nix blinked dumbly at Egil.
“You all right?” the priest asked, prodding the wizard with his toe. “What was that, you standing there slack-jawed? That ring?”
Nix shook his head to clear it, blinked away the blue fog. “Aye. A fixation stone. Got me before I could arrange my thoughts against it.”
“Fakkin’ gewgaws at every turn,” Egil said, glancing about. He dug his toe into the wizard’s ribs again. No response.
Nix looked around, wondering if anyone else had noted their presence. With the moons down, the meager starlight cast the vast grounds in grays and blacks and deeper blacks. Nix’s memory filled in what he couldn’t actually see.
The dome of the teaching college rose up into the night sky, the narrow tower of the calling gong sticking out of it like a raised finger. The low, unremarkable cluster of buildings that served as the students’ quarters hugged the walls to their left, and the more elaborate, multistory buildings that housed the Masters and their laboratories crowded the grounds to the right. Between them was the gathering plaza, decorated with the statues of old Masters, carved topiary, the pool of memories. Behind the teaching college were the vast gardens and livestock pens that provided the Conclave with much of its food. The Master Herbalist tended the animals and kept the harvest rich year after year. What couldn’t be prepared on the grounds was purchased in the city by way of hirelings, many of them enspelled to obey. The Conclave kept dozens of agents under spell or contract or both, and they acquired all the other materials the school might need
, including corpses for experimentation.
“It’s like a fakkin’ cemetery in here,” Egil said, taking in the topiary and statues. “Small wonder you quit.”
Nix knelt, removed the fixation ring from Kazmarek’s finger, and dropped it into his satchel along with the enchanted shroud. He rifled the pockets of the wizard’s robes, tossing everything onto the grass except for the master key, a metal rod topped with a fleck of pearl, which he kept to hand. He put his ear to the Grandmaster’s mouth and listened for breath.
“Still alive,” he said to Egil, and stood. “You losing your touch?”
“Seeing as you didn’t slit his throat, I assume we’re not going to kill him?”
“No,” Nix said. “We have a bit of a history, he and I. And he might be useful. So we’re going to bring him.”
Egil nodded. He heaved the unconscious wizard over his shoulders as though he were little more than a child. “I reserve the right to hit him in the head again. Meantime, let’s get out of plain sight, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Nix said, and walked at the double quick toward the teaching college. Picking his way through the statues and topiary reminded him of younger days, when he’d imagined a different course for his life than tomb robbing and owning a brothel.
But then, he couldn’t imagine a life he wanted more than the one he had.
Stone dragons stood on pedestals at the base of the grand, sweeping stone staircase that led up to the closed doors of the college. They hurried up them until they stood before the double doors. Nix knew they’d be locked, as they always were after instruction ended for the day. Holding the master key he’d taken from Kazmarek, he placed the pearl against a shallow indentation under the door handle. An illusory mouth formed on the door and said, “Good evening, Grand Master.”
The doors clicked and swung open. The air in the hall and foyer beyond smelled as Nix remembered—stale but aromatic, like a dried onion. That smell would forever remind him of the theaters in the round he’d stood in during classroom instruction, watching demonstrations of spells, item use, listening to lectures on alchemy.
